


Whisper Through The Chrysalis

by cheshire_carroll



Series: A More Refined Butcher [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Butcher Neil Josten, Dark Neil Josten, Hannibal is his own warning, Serial Killer Neil Josten, references to cannibalism, references to murder, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-14 16:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16043864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshire_carroll/pseuds/cheshire_carroll
Summary: Hannibal had always taught Mischa not to play games with law enforcement— making artwork out of pigs to display was one thing, but actually inserting themselves into the investigation? Getting involved with the FBI? That was against the rules, and when Hannibal inevitably ends up on the run after breaking those rules, well, Mischa holds grudges.After refusing to go on the run with Hannibal, Mischa Lecter instead goes into Witness Protection, gets a new name, then starts breaking the rules too. He’s never thought much of Exy; he knows the risks, knows the rules, but if Hannibal can break them, then so can he— which is how ‘Neil Josten’ ends up joining the Millport Dingos.Six months later, David Wymack shows up with an interesting offer.Or: whatever name he uses, 'Neil' still runs on spite, Wymack bites off more then he can chew (not that he realises that yet), and the cannibal puns are definitely a thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Tėvas" = Lithuanian word for Father

**“ _It occurred to Dr. Lecter at_   _that moment that with all his knowledge and intrusion, he could never entirely predict her, or own her at all. He could feed the caterpillar, he could whisper through the chrysalis; what hatched out followed its own nature and was beyond him_.” **

**― Thomas Harris, _'Hannibal'_  **

 

**I.**

When he hears the distinctive ringtone of the burner phone while changing out of his uniform, ‘Neil Josten’ doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“ _Sécurisé_?” he asks, not bothering with a greeting.

“Yes, the line’s secure.” The familiar voice answers, sounding tired as always. Neil shrugs, even though he knows the one he’s speaking to can’t see the gesture. His _t_ _ė_ _vas_  was never fond of such ‘lazy gestures’ and a lot of what Neil does these days revolves around what his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ doesn’t like— there is a reason Neil is currently standing in a locker room dressed in a sweat-soaked Exy uniform and surrounded by other high-schoolers dressed in sweat-soaked Exy uniforms, and it isn’t because he has any particularly strong feelings for the game.

“Can you really blame me for being careful? How many times has Crawford tried convincing the higher-ups to let him ‘chat’ with me?” He asks, keeping to the French even as he ducks out of the locker room, making his way over to the mostly empty stands overlooking the court. It wouldn’t do to be overheard, after all. On the other end of the line, Will Graham lets out a small huff of bitter amusement.

“I’ve lost count.” He admits.

“Dear old Jack does so love going after the children of the killers who manage to outsmart and evade him.” Neil continues, lip curling in unconscious derision at the very thought of _Special Agent_ Jack Crawford.

Will is silent for a moment. “Sometimes he’s not wrong to.” He says finally, and Neil wonders if he’s talking about Abigail or Neil himself.

“There’s a difference between monsters and survivors,” he says quietly. It’s the closest he’ll ever give to Will to a confession, though it isn’t even his confession. Unlike himself, despite her awareness of her father’s crimes Abigail was very much an unwilling accomplice who took no pleasure in the murders of her look-alikes.

Neil has been an accomplice, yes, but _never_ an unwilling one— his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ always did give him a choice.

“How is Abigail?” Will doesn’t bother with subtlety. He never has minced his words; Neil’s always appreciated that about the man his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ was so obsessed with.

“Why, Special Agent Graham, how could I possibly know such a thing?” He asks dryly. “I’ve had no contact with my father since he fled America, or with any hostages he may have taken with him.”

“Mi— _Neil_ ,” Will’s voice is closer to a growl now and Neil bites back an amused smile at the audible frustration. “Don’t bullshit me. I testified on your behalf, but we both know you’re not as oblivious as you pretend to be. This is a _secure_ line.”

Neil can admit that Will had done him a favour by testifying to his innocence and ignorance to his father’s crimes, as well as his refusal to go with his father when Hannibal urged him to, after walking in on his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ stabbing Will in his study. Neither of them had mentioned Abigail’s presence at the scene, or the fact that she had agreed to flee to Europe with Hannibal. Neil didn’t hold it against her—unlike him, she hadn’t really had the option to stay.

His _t_ _ė_ _vas_ had been furious at his refusal, of course; Neil, however, had been just as, if not more, furious. While his upbringing hadn’t been a _loving_ one, it had been one of _trust_ — and to people like him, trust meant far more than love (and in the words of William Blake,  _It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend_ ). Part of that trust had been that Hannibal would never put their safety in jeopardy, but then his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ had gone ahead and started to play games with the FBI. From there, it had only been a matter of time until he was caught and uncovered for what he was: a serial killer. A cannibal. The Chesapeake Ripper.

After his father and Abigail had left, Neil had applied pressure to Will’s wound and called for an ambulance. From there, he’d spent nearly a week in FBI custody, acting frightened, horrified and confused, until Will finally regained consciousness and backed up his story that he had been shocked to discover the truth of Hannibal’s crimes after walking in on his father stabbing Will, and that he had then refused to go on the run with him.

His innocence was far from the truth, however, and they both knew it—and Jack Crawford certainly suspected it, if the way he had railed against the decision of the higher-ups in the FBI to allow Mischa Lecter to go into the Federal Witness Protection Program. Mischa Lecter had then submitted the case that he was in fear of his safety from Agent Jack Crawford, considering the grudge the man had against his father and his stubborn belief that he had been an accomplice of his father—the same stubborn, ungrounded and unproven conviction he had about Abigail Hobbs’ complicity in her father’s crimes, he’d reminded the panel— and had requested that Crawford not be able to contact him, or be allowed any knowledge of his new identity and location.

Based off Will’s testimony, the panel had agreed to his plea. If Crawford had questions for him, he was to contact the agent in charge of Mischa Lecter’s case. Neil Josten’s doorstep had never been darkened by the man.

On his birth certificate, at nineteen Neil Abram Josten was a year older then Mischa Giuliano Lecter had been. Neil Josten was also officially estranged from his father, despite being financially supported by the man, and had a deceased mother. Neil Josten lived alone in Millport, Arizona, and attended Millport High School. Neil Josten led a quiet life, very different from Mischa Lecter’s high society lifestyle. Neil Josten’s life was _dull_ , but it was better than prison; he’s fairly certain he’d have been able to talk his way into the WITSEC without Will’s help, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as easy.

And for that, he _owes_ Will— he hadn’t saved the man’s life, when Hannibal had attacked him; the wound had been non-lethal, that was obvious to anyone with even a basic knowledge of anatomy, not to mention his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ had actually had the sheer fucking nerve to tell Will as he bled on the floor to watch out for Mischa while he was gone.

A month after he’d been situated in Millport, Neil had anonymously sent a burner phone to Will. It had been a risk, but Will’s silence on Abigail’s presence that day, as well as his siding against Crawford on his behalf, had made him feel that the risk was worth it.

So far, it has been. Will seemed relieved to be able to contact him; he supposes there aren’t exactly many people out there who share the same complicated relationship with Hannibal as they both do. Neil spent eleven years living with Hannibal Lecter, after the man had murdered and cannibalised his biological father. Despite his current fury, his feelings for Hannibal are the closest to love that he is capable of. The man had raised him, had cared for him, had provided for him, and taught him everything he knew.

Hannibal had intended to shape Will in a similar fashion to how he’d shaped Mischa, to set free his true potential. Will’s morals, however, proved far more resistant than those of an abused six-year-old son of a brutal, sadistic crime lord father with a hobby as a hit-man and serial killer, and a mob-daughter mother who’d never known anything but violence and cold pragmatism in her life, which had reflected in the way she treated her young son— Neil had soaked in every single one of Hannibal’s lessons, and he had excelled.

 _Don’t play games with law enforcement_ — that had been one of Hannibal’s most important rules, when it came to their favourite hobby. Killers who got involved with the police got caught, and, despite his brilliance, his father had proved no exception. That it was Hannibal’s obsession with Will Graham led to him discarding such an important rule in their lives probably means that Neil should hate Will. Will, unfortunately, is very hard to hate.

Neil sighs out loud, casting a glance around him. The sky is darkening as dusk creeps forwards and the stands overlooking the Exy court are now entirely empty. “Abigail is fine.” He tells Will. “I haven’t spoken to _him_ , though. I don’t plan to anytime soon, either.”

Neil is very capable of holding a grudge— a grudge which is entirely responsible for the fact he is currently looking over an Exy court he’d just played on. _Don’t play games with law enforcement_ fell under his father’s main rule category of _Don’t take unnecessary risks_. Considering his biological father’s connection to the Moriyama Yakuza and the Moriyama’s connection to Exy, playing the bastard-sport had always been deemed one such Unnecessary Risk.

Growing up, Neil hadn’t cared about the rule of no playing Exy; why would he? He’d only played about three months of little league Exy before Hannibal had come along and saved him; he had no particular attachment to the sport, and at the exclusive private school he’d attended in Baltimore he’d had many other sports to enjoy—he’d always preferred his martial arts to team sports, but he’d joined the ice hockey team after a visit to Lithuania during winter when he was eleven and had continued playing the sport all through high school.

After his father had been revealed to be a serial killer and fled the United States, however, Neil had spitefully signed up for the Millport High Exy team— if Hannibal could break the rules, then so could he.

Abigail hadn’t been impressed when he’d told her. Their contact was sporadic— a shared email address with a fake name that they logged on to only on public computers, reading the unsent emails written in code saved in the draft folder. They didn’t give each other details about where they were, and Abigail knew better than to try and get him to leave a message for Hannibal before he was ready, but he did know enough to know she was alive and healthy and not unbearably unhappy.

Will is quiet for a long moment before sighing. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.” Neil just shrugs again.

“I have to go, Will.”

“Okay,” Will repeats. “Be safe, Neil.”

Neil bites back a sarcastic ‘yes dad’, knowing that would push too many of Will’s buttons in ways that Will isn’t ready for yet. They’re all aware, him, Will, Hannibal, and Abigail, just what Hannibal’s plans for them all had included— one big happy murder family, with Hannibal and Will as the parents.

“You too.” He tells Will before ending the call and jogging back to the now empty locker room to finish changing out of his uniform. The phone-call from Will has done little to shift the mood that has been settling over him since the last whistle of the game; tonight had been the Millport Dingos’ final match; they’d missed out on the championship finals by two games and now their season is over. Neil’s found himself feeling surprisingly unhappy about that.

Since been placed in Millport by WITSEC, he’s spent an awful lot of his time combatting boredom; playing Exy has been the only interesting part of the small Arizona town where there is nothing to do but play sports or bingo, and the adrenaline thrill that came with breaking one of the rules that had governed his life for over a decade is the closest to the excitement of a hunt he’s felt since his _t_ _ė_ _vas_ fled to Europe. Not to mention, the speed and aggression of the game reminds him of all the best parts of ice-hockey.

To his surprise, Coach Hernandez is waiting for him, standing beside the entrance to his office which connects to the locker room. There’s a slight tightness around the Coach’s eyes— nervousness, Neil identifies with the ease that comes from over a decade of learning how to read peoples’ thoughts and emotions from their body language. Hernandez is a fundamentally good person, so Neil isn’t too worried.

“Can I help you, Coach?” He asks, keeping his expression open and friendly but not bothering to hide his curiosity.

“Ah,” Hernandez scratches the back of his neck; one of the most common body language signs of guilt or deception. Neil still isn’t worried— he knows he can take the older man if he has too; Hernandez might be built tall and strong, but Neil’s been trained since he was six years old to bring down people bigger and stronger then himself and it’s been years since he’s failed.

“There’s someone here to see you,” Hernandez says, and Neil feels himself go still. _Nobody_ should be here to see Neil Josten. _Nobody_ outside Millport should know that Neil Josten _exists_ , and Neil Josten has formed no real connections to any of the fewer than nine hundred residents that Millport boasts.

“Oh?” He says, keeping his voice even and steady even as he tilts his head slightly in a way he knows is unnerving, his ice-blue eyes not leaving Hernandez’s own. “That’s interesting. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

He senses movement out of the corner of his eye and shifts slightly in place so that both Hernandez and the sudden newcomer are both in his field of vision. The bag with his change of clothes and the burner phone are both in easy reach, as is the knife inside the bag and his Exy stick, which can be turned into a weapon with ease.

The newcomer, a large man now standing in the locker room doorway that leads to Hernandez’s office, isn’t someone Neil recognises— and with the sleeves of tribal flame tattoos alone, he’s distinctive enough in appearance that Neil would recognise if he’d seen the man before. One of the man’s hands is stuffed into his jeans pocket, possibly hiding a weapon there, while the other holds a thick file. His stance is casual, but the look in his brown eyes is intent.

“I’m afraid we haven’t met,” Neil smiles coolly at the man.

“He’s from a university,” Hernandez answers for the stranger. “He came to see you play tonight.”

“An interesting decision,” Neil drawls, “one I imagine he didn’t reach himself. Nobody recruits from Millport, after all. Nobody even knows where we are.”

“There’s this thing called a map,” the stranger says. “You might have heard of it.”

“Vaguely.” Neil lets his smile sharpen, meeting those intense brown eyes with cold, pale blue. “My generation tend to use GPS.”

“Neil,” Hernandez says sternly, giving him a warning look. “He’s here because I sent him your file. He put a note out saying he was short on his striker line, and I figured it was worth a shot. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if anything would come of it and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Neil actually turns his gaze back to Hernandez, unable to help the incredulity he’s feeling. He imagines nobody in WITSEC caught wind of Hernandez’s decision, because it’s the last thing they’d want.

“I tried contacting your parents when he asked for a face-to-face tonight,” Hernandez adds, a touch defensively.

“Even _I’m_ not in contact with them,” Neil says flatly. “My mother is dead, and my father fucked off the day I turned eighteen, though he at least had the decency to leave me with a bank account full of cash and legal independence. Every teenagers’ dream.”

There’s a certain thrill that comes with swearing in front of an adult; Hannibal despised vulgarity even more than lazy gestures, he saw them as rude and, well, there was only one thing the Lecters had ever done with rude people.

“You’ve clearly got an attitude and a half,” the stranger says bluntly, “but I’m desperate. It’s stupid late in the season for me to be here, I know, but I had some technical difficulties with my last recruit. Coach Hernandez said you still haven't chosen a school for fall. Works out perfectly, doesn't it? I need a striker sub, and you need a team. All you have to do is sign the dotted line and you're mine for five years.”

“Who’s to say I actually want to play college Exy?” Neil counters, arching an eyebrow. “My grades are perfect, getting into a college isn’t going to be an issue for me. And you haven’t even said _which_ college you belong to, which is suspicious.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “you haven’t said your name, for that matter. Which is rude, considering you apparently know all about me.”

The stranger actually smiles at that, clearly amused. Hernandez looks mildly horrified— Neil’s been playing a mild and unassuming teenager; the man isn’t at all prepared for this sharp-tongued version of him, much closer to the truth of who he is.

“I’m David Wymack,” the stranger introduces himself, “I coach the Palmetto State University Foxes.”

And that— now _that_ is _interesting_.

He’s done his research on Exy. The Palmetto State University Foxes are a team of talented rejects and junkies because Wymack only recruits athletes from broken homes. His decision to turn the Foxhole Court into a halfway house of sorts is nice in theory, but it means his players are fractured isolationists who can’t get along long enough to get through a game. They are notorious in the NCAA both for their tiny size and for getting ranked dead-last three years running. They'd done significantly better this past year thanks to the perseverance of their captain and the strength of their new defence line, but they’re still considered a joke by critics. It had been public knowledge that the ERC, the Exy Rules and Regulations Committee, had been losing patience with their poor results.

And then Kevin Day, the former national champion, had joined their line. It was possibly the single greatest thing to ever happen to the Foxes, and had also been a source of considerable amusement to Neil when he read about it.

Kevin Day had been the ward of Tetsuji Moriyama, younger brother to Kengo Moriyama, head of the Moriyama Yakuza, since his mother had died— she was likely killed by Tetsuji so he could claim the full royalties for the creation of the “new” sport. Day had grown up as property of the Moriyama Yakuza, and it was only his fame that had kept him alive when he slipped his leash.

The Moriyamas had been Nathan Wesninski’s business partners, and they were the reason behind the No Exy rule. Joining the Foxes while Day was part of the team, guaranteeing that the Foxes would have the full focus of the Moriyamas on them, would be the height of stupidity.

_Just like playing games with the FBI._

“Interesting,” he says out loud.

“Interesting,” Wymack repeats. “That’s one way to put it.”

Neil smiles, not in a friendly manner at all. “I’ve played Exy for six months for a high school team that didn’t even make championships. No Class I team should stoop so low in recruitment, no matter how desperate they are. So yes, it is interesting. Very interesting.”

This time he hears the new arrivals before he sees them. These arrivals are much less welcome, because unlike Wymack, they’re standing in the doorway of the locker room, blocking off his escape route. He recognizes both new arrivals; one is Andrew Minyard, five foot even goalie for the Foxes with a face about as lively as a corpse. The other is Kevin Day; tall, pretty, dark-haired, green-eyed, and branded like the property he’s fooling himself into thinking he isn’t with a black number two on his left cheekbone.

“You’re right,” Day says; blunt, scowling and not even a hint of patience present. “We should have thrown away your coach's letter the second we opened it. Your file is deplorable and I don't want someone with your inexperience on our court. It goes against everything we're trying to do with the Foxes this year. Fortunately for you, your coach knew better than to send us your statistics. He sent us a tape so we could see you in action instead. You play like you have everything to lose.”

“Interesting,” Neil repeats for the fourth time, still smiling despite the insults. Day isn’t wrong, after all; his file would be deplorable. However; “’Nothing to lose’—is that your interpretation of how I play?”

He flicks his eyes over to Minyard’s for a moment; they’re blue, a warmer shade then Neil’s own, and blank and lifeless as his face, before focusing his attention back on Day. Day is frowning.

“How would you interpret it?” He demands. Neil arches an eyebrow at the rudeness of the tone, then decides he can’t really afford to be throwing stones right now.

“Spite-fuelled.” He answers Day honestly enough. “Rage too. All backed by a healthy dose of perceived personal betrayal.”

“Well that’s cheerful.” Wymack remarks as Day just blinks at him, apparently surprised by his answer. Neil shrugs.

“I’ve got a lot of anger. Daddy issues. He didn’t like Exy, when we went our separate ways the first thing I did was join an Exy team. It didn’t help that this shit-hole of a town didn’t have an ice-hockey team.”

“Millport isn’t that bad,” Hernandez mutters, and Neil had honestly forgotten the man was even still present.

“It is compared to the big cities,” he says dismissively, not even looking at the high school coach. Wymack speaks up then, taking something different from his statement then Hernandez.

“Ice-hockey? You played ice-hockey?” He asks.

“Nearly eight years,” Neil answers truthfully and Wymack nods.

“That explains your skill, considering you’ve only been playing Exy six months.” He says and Neil snorts.

“Exy isn’t exactly unique,” he says dryly. “It’s a bastard sport evolved from lacrosse and ice-hockey, and I’ve had experience playing both. It wasn’t too hard to pick up.”

Day looks incredibly insulted by this but Minyard actually snorts, which is the first time he’s showed any emotion since Neil first laid eyes on him.

“Kevin, shut up,” Wymack orders without even looking at Day. Neil looks back to him, meets his eyes once more. They’re less intense now, more considering. “You don’t sound like you’ve got a great deal of love for the sport,” he says.

“I don’t dislike it,” Neil replies honestly. Wymack’s right in that he doesn’t love Exy for Exy— but he does enjoy what it affords him.

“Hmm.” Wymack says, and there’s careful consideration on his face now. “I’m certainly not hearing a helluva lot of investment in Exy,” he notes and Neil actually smiles at that, all teeth.

“Oh you’re wrong there,” he promises, “with how pissed off I am? I’m invested like you wouldn’t believe.”

Wymack gives him another long look, and Day chooses to speak up again. “Exy matters to you,” he says, green eyes as intense as Wymack’s had been earlier. “I don’t care why, I care that whatever the fuck you’re trying to claim, you play like Exy is the only thing that’s real, the only thing that matters. Stop wasting our time and sign the fucking contract already.”

And Neil… doesn’t actually quite know how to respond to that, because this time Day isn’t so far comically off base. Millport is dull, it’s lifeless; the only time he’s ever felt alive here, is when he’s playing Exy. He could apply and get into most colleges on his grades, but that would be the end of Exy. It would be the end of the only thing that didn’t feel like an act; Neil Josten, the boring, average schoolboy, or even Mischa Lecter, the innocent, ignorant son of a monster.

“Well, kid? Are you going to keep us in suspense?” Wymack demands. “Are you going to sign the damn contract or not?”

“Certainly not without getting a lawyer to look it over first, thanks,” he says immediately, because he knows better than to just sign a legal document. Also, before he makes a decision like this he definitely needs to get into contact with the WITSEC agent in charge of his case.

“But, you’re thinking of signing, then?” Wymack pushes. Neil thinks of how stupid it would be to sign on to the Foxes, thinks of the possible repercussions if the Moriyama manage to recognise him, thinks of Hannibal’s reaction to learning what a stupid thing he’d done— and laughs.

_Don’t take unnecessary risks. Don’t play Exy._

_Don’t play games with law enforcement._

“Well, what the fuck,” he says out loud, shaking his head before looking back at Wymack and grinning, holding out his hand for the file. “Why the fuck not?”

Hannibal really shouldn’t have broken their rules. After all, fathers are supposed to lead by example. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: highly inaccurate portrayal of the Federal Witness Protection Program (WITSEC)

****II.** **

“Interesting kid,” David Wymack comments as they drive away from Millport High School. Kevin makes a rude sound from the passenger seat; Andrew is stretched out across the back and David doesn’t bother making an argument for him getting his muddy shoes off the leather considering it’s just a rental.

“Interesting!” Kevin scoffs, “did you hear what he said about Exy?”

Kevin’s indignation is a near-palpable thing and David can’t help but find himself amused despite himself; to Kevin, whose life has been nothing but Exy, raised that way by that bastard Tetsuji, has probably never heard something more “blasphemous” in his life than having Exy called a ‘bastard sport’. It doesn’t hurt that Josten wasn’t entirely wrong either, despite how crassly he put it.

Andrew, unsurprisingly, is just as crass and he snorts again, just like he had when Josten first said it. “He didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” the blond proceeds to then taunt Kevin, who swells up in rage at the perceived slight to his greatest love in life. David cuts in before the kid can start ranting.

“Opinions about Exy aside,” he says pointedly, “what did you think of the kid?”

“I’ve met people like him before,” Andrew says flatly. His usual medication-enforced ‘smile’ is barely tilting the corners of his mouth; it’s the most serious David’s ever seen him while under the influence of the court ordered pills. He’d first noticed it back when they’d accidentally ambushed Neil Josten in the locker room—he hadn’t realised Hernandez failed to actually let Josten know they were coming; Hernandez, for all his best intentions, clearly has very little experience dealing with the sort of kids David likes to sign up as Foxes. Kids like Josten.

“Yeah?” He asks, raising an eyebrow as he meets Andrew’s flat blue eyes in the car’s rear-view mirror.

He’s never considered Andrew’s eyes to be anything close to ‘warm’ before, but he’s revised his opinion after meeting Josten; he’s never actually seen eyes a shade of blue that reminds him so intensely of ice— and that was before the kid’s attitude had even turned cold.

“Yeah,” Andrew says flatly, still not looking away. “In juvy.”

David isn’t phased the way others might be by such an observation; a majority of his Foxes have fucked up bad enough at some point in their lives that a determined prosecutor could have them serving time. Andrew rolls his eyes, reading his opinion on his face.

“The kids like that,” he says, still uncharacteristically serious, “if you were smart, you stayed away.”

“Were you one of those kids?” David asks, and Andrew actually smirks.

“Oh no, Coach, I wasn’t one of those ‘ _dead-eyed monsters’_.” The last three words are clearly a quote and David can’t help but raise an eyebrow again, well aware of the name Andrew’s lot has been given by the others. Andrew’s smirk widens into a more familiar grin, edging on manic. “Oh Coach, Coach, Coach,” he says, mocking, “you’re making a mistake.”

“People told me that when I signed you,” David tells him pointedly and Andrew just shrugs, visibly losing interest.

“You asked what I thought. Don’t bitch when you don’t like what I have to say.”

Touché, David thinks dryly, before glancing over to the right, at Kevin. “And you?”

“I still want him,” Kevin says stubbornly, crossing his arms. “He’s clearly an idiot, but you saw the video. He’s fast, he’s strong, he’s a strategist, he doesn’t panic, and he doesn’t have issues with thinking on his feet.”

“He hasn’t signed the contract yet,” Andrew drawls. “Don’t go getting too attached, Kevin. You saw how he reacted to having his exits blocked off— twenty bucks he’s a runner.”

“He’ll get into contact with us,” David says firmly, because Andrew might be a genius— a stupid genius, but a genius nonetheless— but he doesn’t have David’s experience with kids like Josten. He has no doubts that Josten will contact them, it’s just a matter of time.

And sure enough, Josten rings the number he’d given him before lunch the following day and arranges for an afternoon meeting at the school. David smirks as Andrew throws a twenty at him.

—

The first thing Neil does after spending the night considering the offer is get into contact with the WITSEC agent assigned to him, U.S. Marshal Sam Kassmeyer. Kassmeyer is a fair man; he has a strong sense of justice, but not one of judgment. Too many of the FBI agents and U.S. Marshals and even various judges, prosecutors and defence attorneys that he’d found himself surrounded by and talking to in those first few weeks after his _tėvas_ was revealed as a cannibal and quite possibly _the_ most prolific serial killer in the history of the United States had been nothing but judgmental. They had look at him and seen only his father, and to be fair they weren’t wrong, but they didn’t know that, did they?

Neil’s mostly just annoyed by it all because he knows Abigail was given similar treatment and, unlike him, Abigail _is_ innocent… for a given value of innocent, that is. She was her father’s lure, yes, but it was her or them and Neil can’t imagine a situation where he’d ever choose a stranger over himself, and for all their easy judgement he doesn’t see how anyone else would either, should they find themselves in the same situation.

Kassmeyer, thankfully, is a smarter man than most. Or at least, a much less judgmental one and Neil doesn’t have to imagine how he’d make broth out of Kassmeyer’s bones following their careful, methodical removal from his still-warm corpse just to keep calm.

After he organises the meeting with Kassmeyer for ten AM, Neil drives to the local library. He pays the middle-aged librarian ten dollars for the hour use of the public computer. She barely looks up from her phone, just like always, and Neil’s polite smile cools in temperature as he thinks about how his _tėvas_ would react to such rudeness. It’s so automatic to want to find her name; it’s easy in small towns, to track people down with their mere names and occupations. Neil’s avoided finding out her name during any of his fortnightly visits to the library over the past six months for just this reason.

The very first time she’d just muttered “ten dollars” at him without even looking up from the screen, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the public computers after flicking her fingers against the tin to put the money in, his view of her had shifted, something clicking into place in his head that he can’t just “click” back. Physically, there’s nothing about her that’s even slightly changed, but he doesn’t see a human being when he looks at her; to be blunt, he sees meat. This is how he’s been raised; it’s the world as he understands it, how his _tėvas_ had taught him to see his fellow human beings.

He doesn’t regret it. He’ll never regret the person that Hannibal Lecter has raised him to be. Hannibal saved him from the monster who still lurks in his nightmares, jerking awake soaked in sweat and pressing his hands to his stomach, where the Butcher had once nearly gutted him, or to his shoulder, where a burning iron had been pressed against his vulnerable skin until his screams turned hoarse.

Maybe if even just one of the people who raised him had had even a shred of humanity in them, it wouldn’t be such an ordeal constantly reminding himself of the ‘value’ to human life, that other people were more than just stepping stones, more than means and methods for getting what he wanted, problems needing solving, variables that might stand in his way— more than just _pigs._

Neil sometimes wonders about nature versus nurture; he’s the son of a psychiatrist, how can he not? Would he be this way, if Nathan wasn’t a brutally sadistic monster? If Mary hadn’t beaten him for showing any sign of vulnerability( _weakness_ )? If Hannibal hadn’t raised him in his image? If he had the ordinary sort of parents and upbringing that existed in movies? Or is just the way he is?

In the end, it doesn’t actually matter to him though. He is who he is, and he doesn’t mind being who he is— he _likes_ who he is. Most would label him sociopathic, have given Hannibal the same label too, but he and his  _tėvas_ don’t like the term, it just doesn’t sit right on them. They’re not inhuman, not incapable of care and affection for a person other than themselves. They’re like knives; they require handling with care and caution, just as able to harm as to help.

And so, as he does every fortnight, Neil averts his eyes from the librarian’s name-badge, reminds himself of the photo-frame on her desk with the picture of her two kids— two kids that surely must feel for her a depth of emotion similar to what he feels for Hannibal, and steps past.

(It feels like he dreams every night of pale, bloodless limbs, of sharp knives carving long crimson stains through giving flesh, of the satisfying _crunch-pop_ of vertebrae snap-cracking under his hands, of the scent of crackling meat that makes him think of _homehomehome_ —)

He clicks the mouse of the computer, waking the screen. It’s easy to open a web browser, then choose his favourite proxy site, before he logs onto the email of Darion Pascal.

There is no draft saved in the draft folder; Abigail hasn’t typed out a reply to his latest message yet, but he’s not surprised; it’s a week and a half before he's officially expecting a reply.

In the subject line of the draft, he writes; _Ms. Gale—URGENT_

Then, he writes; _Ms. Gale, I have just learned that my grandchild, Abram, plans to take his sport to a professional level. He has been offered a position by a university on their team and has decided to accept. I know his father will not be pleased, but Abram is determined to do so anyway and is in discussions over contracts. Your thoughts on this matter, my dear, will be as appreciated as always._ _Forever your good friend, Darion M. L. Pascal._

He saves the email, then exits the browser, wipes his history— not truly necessary after using the proxy server, but something that makes him feel better nevertheless— then slides a USB into the computer so he can print several of his school assignments from the library printer, an easy cover for why he needs to use the public computer.

It’s not paranoia, after all, if they’re really after you.

When he leaves the library, he goes straight to the school, then to the office at Millport High that Hernandez had opened for Neil and Kassmeyer, posing as Neil's lawyer, to ostensibly go over the contract before officially meeting Wymack. In reality, he and Kassmeyer need to discuss the logistics of Palmetto’s offer, to figure out if it's a possibility or a risk that's too significant.

To Neil's surprise, the meeting with Kassmeyer goes smoothly. Frankly, the U.S. Marshal seems excited for him and the opportunity he’s been given. The exposure he’d get in the media isn’t ideal, of course, but he’s a… special case for WITSEC, you could say, considering that he _isn’t_ actually a federal witness, but _is_ in hiding from a criminal father— and his criminal father’s numerous enemies. People aren’t actively searching for Mischa Lecter, not outside the occasional true crime fanatic, devoted reporter or Hannibal Lecter groupie, and despite the lies he’s told everyone, Neil isn’t actually afraid of his _tėvas_ finding him. Hannibal would never, ever purposefully hurt him, and he had respected his son’s decision not to join him on the run, even if he did not like it.

After nearly three hours of conference calls and arguing with the higher-ups in both WITSEC and the FBI, Kassmeyer finally gets permission to read in David Wymack to the situation. With Wymack’s help, Neil’s media exposure can be minimised, and appropriate safety and security measures can be taken. Neil agrees, even as a sudden uncertainty (insecurity, though he won't admit it) strikes him. He is, after all, the son of a serial killer and a cannibal; frankly, Wymack could change his mind about wanting Neil on the team for a lot less, and there are only too many excuses he can give the university if they ask why he’s changed his mind about recruiting Neil, and none of those would be false.

He's found himself startlingly attached to the idea of joining the Palmetto Foxes in a very short amount of time. It would actually be honestly disappointing if Wymack decided he ‘wasn’t a good fit’, but there was nothing Neil could actually do about it except wait for the Coach’s reaction.

Wymack arrives on time for their meeting, which Neil likes. Punctuality is only polite, after all.

“David Wymack,” Kassmeyer says, standing up to shake Wymack’s hand and give the confused-looking man a very professional smile. “I’m U.S. Marshal Sam Kassmeyer.”

“U.S. Marshal,” Wymack repeats, his eyes widening slightly. “That’s part of Witness Protection, right?”

“Correct,” Kassmeyer nods. “As I think you can guess, I’m here about the student you approached to recruit— Neil Josten.”

Neil nods his head when Wymack glances over at him with a sudden, shocked sort of realisation dawning in his eyes.

“Neil is a special case for us,” Kassmeyer continues. “He’s not a federal witness, as such, though he has given us certain valuable information in the past.”

Neil holds in a snort— "valuable information" was pushing it; he’d ‘remembered’ a few ‘random’ facts that the FBI, U.S. Marshals and Interpol had found interesting, but Neil is well aware that nothing he’s given them has led to anything more than a few bodies being uncovered— and certainly none of the bodies he’d had any involvement with them ending up in the ground, of course.

“So why’s he in protection then?” Wymack asks, frowning, and Kassmeyer’s professional smile is replaced by a grim expression.

“Neil’s father is a wanted fugitive who we couldn’t guarantee wouldn’t attempt to come back for him, if we left him as he was,” the Marshal explains. “We were also concerned for his safety from his father’s enemies and his ability to be able to lead a normal life if his real name was known.”

“Alright,” Wymack says slowly, “and will I be read in on who his father is?”

“After you sign certain NDAs, with the understanding that if you share the information that will be revealed with anyone, you won’t just end up fined, you will serve time in prison,” Kassmeyer says, producing the forms. “You’re welcome to get a lawyer to read over them for you—"

“Don’t bother,” Wymack grunts, holding out his hand to accept the forms. The next half hour as the man flicks through the forms is quiet. Neil does homework as he waits (and if he’s trying to give off a normal teenage vibe by doing so, well, forward-thinking is important, and what’s more perfectly average for a high-school student to be doing then study and schoolwork?)

Finally, Wymack signs his name over the dotted line and Kassmeyer tucks the forms away before finally laying the truth out in the open. “Neil’s real name is Mischa Lecter,” the U.S. Marshal says matter-of-factly, “and his father is Hannibal Lecter.”

Wymack recognises the name immediately— _everyone_ knows who Hannibal the Cannibal is (in a twisted sort of way, Neil’s actually proud of that fact). “The serial killer,” he says flatly.

“You can say ‘cannibal’,” Neil speaks up before Kassmeyer can, letting a practiced and now-familiar look of deep-seated misery and grief slide over his face. “It’s what everyone really thinks when they hear his name. It won’t—,” _pause, hitch breath, look vulnerable_ —“it won’t break me to hear it.”

Actually, he’s had to remember Abigail’s original reaction to learning that her father had been _feeding_ her those look-alikes she’d lured for him to appropriately mimic the horror he’s supposed to display upon learning his father has been serving him (and everybody else who’s ever eaten at his table) human beings for food.

He was just six years old when he watched Hannibal slaughter, butcher and cook his birth-father, and he had barely hesitated at all when Hannibal had offered him part of Nathan for breakfast. Now, over a decade later, it’s difficult to display horror for something that seems so natural to him, never the taboo that everyone else seems to treat it.

“Fuck,” Wymack mumbles to himself, still visibly shocked.

“I’ll give you both some privacy,” Kassmeyer says, shooting Neil a look that he thinks is meant to be encouraging and supportive, and Wymack a stern, warning look, like he’s reminding him to behave.

Neil waits until he leaves before turning back to Wymack. “Still want me?” he asks wryly.

Wymack is quiet for a good minute. "Did you think I made the team the way it is because I thought it would be a good publicity stunt?” he finally asks, voice as grave as his eyes. “It's about second chances, Neil. Second, third, fourth, whatever, as long as you get at least one more than what anyone else wanted to give you.”

“You’re ridiculously idealistic, you realise,” Neil informs him, shaking his head slightly, “but… you’ve got a good heart," he admits. "I don’t know many people with good hearts.”

Will is probably the closest thing to a ‘good person’ in his life, and Will has sociopathic tendencies and enjoys killing, no matter how much he hates that he does. Wymack is different from Will, and not just because he clearly has the people skills that Will lacks.

Neil doesn’t think many people would agree to have the son of a prolific serial killer with a kill count estimated to be in the hundreds (a not incorrect estimate, either) on their team. Even a reject team like the Palmetto State Foxes. Apparently Wymack is determined to prove him wrong— ridiculous idealist or not, Wymack is a good man. One that, Neil thinks, if the circumstances were different, Hannibal would like him. As it is, the thought is accompanied by a hollow, yearning ache, the reminder of his father's absence sitting uncomfortably in his chest. 

“Wait till you meet the Foxes,” Wymack tells him, something kind in his eyes. “They’re a good bunch of kids. They’ve got good hearts too.”

Neil has his doubts. ‘Kids’ don’t tend to interest him; they’re shallow and selfish, in general— the only person his age, or close to his age, that he’s ever actually liked is Abigail. He doesn’t hide the scepticism from his face and Wymack bellows out a laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“You lot are all the same,” he says with unmistakable fondness. “Mark my words, kid, you’re going to fit in just fine.”

“I suppose I’ll have to trust you on that,” Neil tells Wymack. ‘Trust’ is not a word he uses lightly; he hopes Wymack understands just how significant it is that Neil is willing to offer him this much.

There’s something in Wymack’s eyes, though; something that reminds him of Will, actually. Not pity, not sympathy, but _empathy_ ; like there’s a part of Wymack, somewhere, that understands a part of Neil. That understands just how _shattered_ he feels, by his _tėvas_ breaking his trust and destroying their lives. Like he knows what it’s like to feel so _betrayed_ that sometimes he feels like he’s going to be sick, to feel so _hurt_ that it’s a physical pain inside him.

If he didn’t have the practice meeting Will’s eyes on those rare occasions that Will actually makes eye-contact, he thinks he’d have to look away. As it is, he swallows, uncomfortable but not sure what to say.

Wymack breaks the silence for him. “How would you feel about coming down to South Carolina early?” He asks suddenly. Neil blinks.

“Pardon?” He asks, finally actually using the manners his _tėvas_ had so painstakingly taught him.

“Andrew’s lot stays in town for summer break,” Wymack explains. “They crash with Abby, our team nurse. Her place is full, but you could stay with me until the dorm opens in June. My apartment’s not made for two people but I’ve got a couch that’s a little softer than a rock. We’ll tell everyone you're there for conditional early practice. Chances are half of them will believe it. You won't be able to fool the rest, but that doesn't matter. Foxes are Foxes for a reason and they know we wouldn't sign you if you didn't qualify. Sure, your circumstances are new, but they sure as hell don’t get to know that; nobody gets to know more about another Fox then they’re willing to say.”

Neil gives Wymack an assessing look, before shaking his head slightly in something close to bewilderment. He’s good at reading people, he knows he is, and all he’s getting from Wymack is a whole heap of _genuine_.

He considers the offer. He’s got nothing better to do, clearly, and it’s a good idea to get the extra practice in, but he doesn’t like the idea of staying with Wymack. He’s lived by himself since his _tėvas_ fled the States and he doesn’t want to live with an adult who might have expectations. He especially doesn’t want to live with someone who actually knows the secret of who lives underneath “Neil Josten’s” skin.

At least nobody but Hannibal, Murusaki, and Chiyoh know about who exists underneath “Mischa Lecter”, and Murusaki is dead and Chiyoh lives over five thousand miles away. Nathaniel Wesninski is his deepest, darkest secrets, and that’s exactly what it's going to remain. He buried Nathaniel Wesninski over a decade ago and has no inclination to go digging about the past; it can stay deep, deep down where it belongs.

“Your graduation ceremony is May eleventh, according to your coach," Wymack says, when indecision renders Neil mute for over several minutes. He leans forwards slightly, an encouraging look on his face. "We can have someone pick you up from Upstate Regional Airport Friday the twelfth.”

“Alright,” Neil finally agrees. He’s going to have to get used to living in a dormitory anyway. He may as well start re-learning how to cohabitate a space with an actual adult before having to share with three other students, likely all rude, sloppy, and unhygienic.

“Welcome to the team, Neil,” Wymack says with a big grin, like he’s just genuinely so happy that Neil has agreed.

“Thanks Coach,” he replies, because it’s the right thing to say and because he honestly can’t think of anything else— people like Wymack are _so bloody confusing_. 


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

Neil rings Will the moment he's by himself; not in the car, he doesn't trust that there aren't any listening devices planted, but he goes for a jog after the meeting with Kassmeyer and Wymack and finds himself desperately needing to talk.

"I'm joining a university Exy team," he blurts out the moment the phone's answered.

"I'm going to Europe," Will says, at nearly the same time, their words overlapping slightly.

There's a beat of silence where neither of them says anything, both processing what they've just heard.

Neil knows what Will means when he says he's going to Europe; he's not planning a holiday, he's planning a manhunt. A manhunt for Hannibal.

"The line's secure?" he belatedly remembers to ask, and Will lets out a soft, slightly strained huff of amusement.

"It's secure," he confirms. There's another long, stretched out moment of silence; this time Will breaks it.

" _He_ doesn't like Exy," he murmurs, not needing to clarify who 'he' is. Neil snorts softly in agreement. Even not taking the organised crime connections into account, Hannibal still hadn't cared for Exy— it was too new and lacking in history and originality for him to have any interest, or pay it any notice other than brief disdain and dismissal. Even if it weren't for the whole 'the Butcher of Baltimore worked for the Moriyama' issue, Hannibal would still be horrified by Neil playing collegiate Exy. Neil's feeling pretty savagely pleased by this and he really hopes that Abigail has the guts to pass it on to his _tėvas_ , once she reads his email. There's a high chance she'll be too terrified of his reaction to, but people have always had a tendency to underestimate Abigail and he refuses to be one of them.

Neil has the self-awareness to know that it's stupid and childish of him, but he doesn't care— he wants to upset Hannibal, to hurt him; he wants his father to feel how Neil did, when Hannibal was recklessly risking everything important to them through his sheer arrogance; he wants him to be angry, to be hurt, to be _afraid_. He wants to make Hannibal suffer how he'd suffered; after all, his _tėvas_ raised him with an 'eye-for-an-eye' mindset, without any notion of the concepts of 'forgiveness' or 'second chances'.

Despite that mindset, though, and despite everything that had happened, Neil knows that one day he'll forgive Hannibal for what he did. He's always known that, right from the murder of Cassie Boyle whose lungs he fed to an unwitting Will, the not-quite-an-FBI-agent he'd just met for the first time the previous day and had already killed and cooked for. He will forgive him, but he plans to make him pay first— he is, after all, his father's son; he is exactly who Hannibal has raised him to be.

"He's going to hate it," he confirms to Will, not trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

"Absolutely loathe it," Will agrees, sounding just as satisfied, amusingly enough.

Hannibal hurt Will badly too— and not just physically. Neil has never and never plans to even try to understand the strange connection between his _tėvas_ and Will; it's a sort of intimacy he doesn't understand, the way they'd revolved around each other like two binary stars in a system of their very own, irresistibly drawn together.

Hannibal has formed very few connections with his fellow humans since his little sister died; Neil is one, Abigail another, Lady Murusaki, when she'd been alive, Chiyoh, and perhaps Dr. Du Maurier, at a stretch. None of those connections, though, had been instantaneous, the way it had happened with Will. Not even his connection with Neil, despite the fact he'd only taken about ten minutes to decide he was adopting(kidnapping) him— Hannibal had meant for him to be a protégé, an apprentice he could groom. The attachment came with time. Neil sometimes wonders if he'll ever find someone he connects with like that, his own 'Will'. He's not sure he likes the idea— Hannibal's connection to Will destroyed their lives; _hell_ , for a solid year every time he closed his eyes, Neil had dreamed of Hannibal dying in a hail of bullets when an FBI raid burst into their house after one of the agents had finally figured out Hannibal's game. 

Will breaks the silence again, jolting Neil from his distracting thoughts and back to the phone call. "I was wondering," the not-an-agent says hesitantly, "if you could look after Winston while I'm gone. The other dogs, I've found places for them, but Winston is..."

"Very particular," Neil offers and Will snorts.

"That's one way to put it," he says. "He likes you, though."

Winston did like Neil— the dog had liked Hannibal too. They both used to feed him; Winston had enjoyed the taste of 'pig'. Neil briefly wonders if Will realises Winston's fed on human meat; he thinks Will does know and just chooses not to think about it, about how eagerly Winston had snuffled sausages from Neil and Hannibal's hands and trailed around after them hoping for more, and a scratch behind the ears if they had time— and Neil rarely didn't make the time for the faithful hound. He liked that Winston had been a stray; strays that had been brought in off the street, fed and given a dry place to sleep were viciously loyal the way a dog purchased from a breeders or a pet shop just wasn't. They understood the cruelty of the world and the people in it and just who had rescued them, and they remembered it.

(Neil is Hannibal's son, but more than that, he's his _protégé_ ; he knows where the bodies are buried, where the money trails start and end, he knows the numbers of the bank accounts, the names of contacts, of the likeliest places Hannibal would run, the unlikeliest too, the means and methods behind all Hannibal's murders, the twisted psychology of it all; he knows near about everything important and definitely more than enough for the FBI or Interpol to find Hannibal, lock him up and throw away the key. Neil knows, but he never has revealed anything actually important to law enforcement and never will— Hannibal saved him from hell, made him strong, gave him a future, and no amount of anger will take away the bone-deep loyalty he has for his _tėvas)_

And maybe he relates a bit too strongly to an ex-stray dog, but who the fuck cares? He doesn't. Winston's great.

"I'm going to be staying at my new coach's house from May twelfth until the new semester starts," he tells Will. "Guess I'll message him to say I'll be bringing someone with me."

"Thank you, Mi- _Neil_ ," Will says, audibly relieved— both for agreeing to look after Winston, Neil guesses, and for the lack of condemnation he's given Will's decision to join the manhunt for Hannibal in Europe.

Honestly, he'd be more upset if he wasn't a hundred percent sure Will was far too in love with his _tėvas_ to injure him in any permanent way— and he doubts that, when it comes down to that one, big, inevitable moment of confrontation between them, Will would actually choose to arrest Hannibal, and Hannibal won't let Will get away from him again so hopefully they'll finally actually be honest with each other and work things the fuck out between them.

—

Wymack is in a strange mood when he returns from the meeting with Neil Josten and his lawyer. It's a mix of sympathy, hard contemplation and minor disbelief. To Andrew's frustration, he's actually curious enough about just what the sharp-tongued little viper they'd met yesterday had done or said to put that look on the Coach's face for it to pierce through the general candy-coated apathy that overwhelms his existence— the meds did their best to sweeten up the ennui, masking the aching emptiness in a sugar-rush-esque mania, but the familiar darkness still peeks through at the edges, taunting him with its looming inevitability.

He'd seen that same darkness in the boy's pale reptile eyes; cold, calculating, cunning, with a false light to mimic life. The boys in juvy with eyes like those had been the ones to watch out for— they were the seemingly innocuous ones, so normal and innocent in their appearance and mannerisms, the sort of everyday boy who seems completely different from the rough thugs and delinquents they're surrounded by, and yet their rap-sheets read like horror stories on a whole separate level to vandalism, theft, drug-related offenses or even gang violence.

Andrew hadn't liked it then, and didn't like it now; he'd hoped Neil Josten would refuse the contract, the boy certainly didn't seem overly attached to Exy, as Wymack had pointed out, but as he looks over at Wymack through narrowed eyes, he's not getting the impression at all that Josten refused— on the contrary, Wymack's shoulders have lost the tension they've been carrying since receiving the news of Janie Small's suicide-attempt. _Great._

"Well?" Kevin snaps out irritably when Wymack doesn't start talking, impatient as ever but saving Andrew from having to betray his own interest. "Did he sign?" He demands.

"He did," Wymack confirms and Kevin scowls.

"Good— then let's go. We've wasted enough time being away from the court for so long, we've already missed practices—"

"How can we miss practices," Andrew drawls out, mostly just to annoy Kevin (it's the small things in life), "when the season's over?"

"Just because the season's over, doesn't mean you can stop practice!" Kevin practically howls at him in his outrage, right hand clenched up in rage while his scarred hand remains limp, pliant and useless in what would actually be a pretty good metaphor for Kevin fucking Day if he was in the mood to be all poetic about things.

"Andrew, for fuck's sakes, stop provoking Kevin!" Wymack snaps with a glare, though it's a half-hearted glare at best— he is definitely distracted and damn it, Andrew's curious.

"So," he says, letting the faux mania of the drugs tug his mouth into a wide, fake smile, "what pretty little lie did Josten whisper in your ear that's got you this attached? Some grand Fox-worthy sob story, I'm guessing?"

"His business is none of your fucking business, Andrew, so keep your nose out of it," Wymack orders, and there's iron and steel in his voice as he meets Andrew's eyes. "I'm serious; Neil's past is his own and he's a Fox now."

"You're going to regret it," Andrew warns, well aware that it'll fall on deaf ears. Wymack has a thing for hopeless cases, and whatever Josten's told him has hooked the man completely. The only part of this situation that isn't frustrating (or concerning) is how Josten has shown no interest in Kevin whatsoever. He's not absolving the younger boy of any possible connection to Riko and his Ravens, he's not an idiot, but the way they found Josten was too random to be anything but fluke, and his and Kevin's surprise presence was a test that Josten had passed without a hitch with his complete lack of a reaction.

"There are definitely days I regret you," Wymack mutters and Andrew snorts, not offended or concerned— like he said, Wymack has a thing for hopeless cases and Josten's not the only hopeless case around.

"Neil's gonna be staying with me after he graduates, that way you can get him trained up before the new season starts," Wymack then tells Kevin, who's already finished packing his things in the span of that single conversation and is clearly impatient for them to do the same so he can get back to his precious Exy court.

"Excellent," Andrew answers before Kevin can say anything, feeling his smile widen further and not fighting it. "I'll pick him up from the airport."

"Oh no you fucking will not," Wymack immediately denies and Andrew doesn't bother fighting him now; he has time and he _will_ be the one to pick the little viper up— he has questions and plans on getting his answers without Wymack in the way to interfere.

—

Three days after Neil signs the Palmetto Foxes contract, he finds a draft waiting for him in Darion Pascal's outbox. At first glance, it looks like a child's nursery rhyme, an old Lithuanian one that roughly translates to 'Cooking, Cooking, Porridge'; _Virė virė košę_  
_Vaikai atsilošę_  
_Tam davė,_  
_Tam davė,_  
_Tam davė,_  
_Tam davė_  
_O tam ir neliko!_  

At second glance, however, it is much, much more than it first appears.

Hidden in the child's rhyme is a code that Neil quickly recognises, a code his _tėvas_ taught him when he was young from a game that they'd played together, and decoding it comes quickly and naturally to him, with the end result being a string of numbers that begin with _370_.

'370' is the country calling code for Lithuania.

 _Abigail_  would not send him a Lithuanian phone number hidden in code.

 _Abigail_ did not write the email.

Neil takes a deep breath, holds it in and then slowly releases it. He takes a few minutes to memorise the phone number then deletes the email draft.

He does not reply to the email.

He does not ring the number.

—

On May 11th, 'Neil Josten' graduates from Millport High School with a 4.0 GPA score and an athletic scholarship to Palmetto University. He isn't expecting anyone to be there for the graduation and is surprised when both Kassmeyer and Will turn up. Apparently, he's made a better impression on Kassmeyer than he realised, though the agent doesn't stick around after the ceremony (he does, however, suspect the man might have, if Will hadn't been there).

Will is... the emotions Neil feels about Will coming to support him as he graduates from high school are a complicated tangle that make his chest hurt. He's happy to see Will, of course, and he's genuinely touched that Will had arranged dropping off Winston— and, by extension, his upcoming trip to Europe— around when Neil's school is throwing a ceremony to celebrate and commend its graduating students, but it's also a reminder of the glaring absence of the man who really should have been there.

Hannibal missing Neil graduating high school hurts much more then he'd expected it to. Will's presence serves both as a cruel reminder that digs the knife in deeper, and as a balm to the wound that soothes away part of the ache. And ultimately, Neil _is_ glad that Will came. Will is— he's _family_. And it _is_ good to actually have part of his family there to watch him graduate.

After the ceremony is over, Will hugs him for the first time. It's a slightly awkward, hesitant and careful thing that Neil is truthfully much more comfortable with than any of the big, exuberant hugs he sees the parents around him giving their children. Hugs weren't exactly a normal part of his childhood and upbringing— his biological parents had certainly not been the hugging type, nor was Hannibal, and the few girlfriends he'd had back in Baltimore had learned quickly that he wasn't the type to 'snuggle', though he'd been able to fake physical affection well enough by then.

Abigail is really the only person he's ever hugged 'normally'— she has trust issues, not touch issues, and as she'd always asked permission and accepted a refusal, Neil hadn't felt trapped and uncomfortable wrapped up in his "sister's" embrace.

He doesn't feel trapped or uncomfortable in Will's arms either.

Will buys them burgers for lunch that they eat back at Neil's shitty little unit, the best that WITSEC was willing to shell out for. He's got access to all Hannibal's hidden bank accounts, of course, but he hasn't touched any of them yet, preferring not to poke at the hornet's nest that is law enforcement by acquiring any sudden, unexplainable funds. Now that he's graduated, though, he'll probably get in touch with his lawyer and see about legally gaining access to Hannibal's known bank accounts, which are currently frozen.

Winston is waiting in the tiny shoebox-sized but fenced-in yard attached to the unit where Will must have left him earlier before turning up at Millport High School to surprise Neil, and the mutt is delighted to see him, jumping up and down and yelping and licking his face. Neil splits his burger with the affectionate ex-stray, then lets Winston jump up on his couch and lay his big, furry head on his lap.

Will is quiet as they eat the burgers, his eyes distant. Neil gives him time to work through whatever it is he's stuck on, doting on Winston until Will hasn't actually spoken in nearly half an hour and he feels like he really should say something.

"Are you okay?" He asks bluntly.

"Not really," Will admits, blinking a few times as he focuses back on the present. He looks anxious. "I don't know why I decided to do this. Maybe I should cancel."

"Are you talking about Europe?" Neil asks, frowning, and Will nods. Ah. "Well," he says slowly, "if I was one of the idiots at the FBI, I'd say you decided to do this because Hannibal's a serial killer and it's your job to hunt him down and put him in jail, but really, you're doing it because you miss him." _Obviously_. 

" _Mischa_!" Will looks horribly aghast, and Neil rolls his eyes.

"Seriously, Will, if there's anyone you can be honest with, it's me. You think I don't miss him too?" he demands.

"He's your father, it's only natural you'd miss him!" Will argues back.

"And you think that it's not natural that you miss him?" Neil asks with a snort. "Come on, Will, you're not an idiot, so don't pretend to be one."

Will actually glares at him for a moment before he seems to collapse inward on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as he hunches forwards. Winston actually slides off the couch and trots over to his master, pressing his furry face against Will's thigh in an offer of comfort. "Sometimes," Will says quietly, one hand moving down to Winston's furry head, "you really do remind me of _him_ , Mischa."

Neil isn't offended. That's not news to him— Hannibal did his very best to build 'Mischa Lecter' in his own image. A lot of who Neil is today is the result of Hannibal's teachings, including his healthy dose of self-awareness and knowledge of the benefits of good mental health.

"I'm not going to just let you lie to yourself," he tells Will. "That'll just fuck you up even more in the long run. The truth is rarely ever palatable, but it's the truth and you owe it to yourself to acknowledge it."

"'Rarely ever _palatable_ '—that sounds like it's _his_ words you're quoting there," Will mutters and Neil just shrugs, because Will's not wrong. Hannibal values honesty, he always has— he doesn't lie to himself about what he is, and he's never lied to Neil about it either.

"Are you angry?" Will asks suddenly. "About me going to Europe?"

"No," Neil replies honestly. "It was always going to happen." Hannibal and Will, the binary stars; they were never going to stay apart long.

"I'll still ring you," Will promises, "and you can ring me too, whenever you want. Or text."

"Deal," Neil agrees, "now stop brooding, for fuck's sake."

Will snorts, his mouth finally twitching up into almost a smile. "I could swear that you didn't used to curse nearly as much," he says and Neil grins back at him, sharp and toothy and entirely self-satisfied in a way that makes Will's smile widen.

Okay, so they're both petty. But who the fuck cares?

—

Neil goes for a run after Will finally has to leave or he'll be in danger of missing his flight. Winston joins him, loping at his side and growling at anyone they pass, a fierce, guttural sound that rumbles deep in his chest. Running clears Neil's head, it always has, and by the time he's reached back to the unit, he's finally made his decision. He feeds Winston, brushes the dog, has a shower and then finally picks up the phone and dials the number he swore he wouldn't.

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal picks up on the first ring. "Mischa," he says, his voice low and furious, not even bothering with a greeting. "What do you think you're doing!?"

"Hi dad, it's so good to hear your voice again too," Neil replies sarcastically and he can hear the sharp, angered breath his father takes. "How's being a fugitive from the law going for you?"

"You're making a disastrous mistake," Hannibal tells him, his voice tight with restrained anger, like he's just barely holding back from shouting, and Neil smiles sharply in response.

"Well I'm sure you'd know, considering your familiarity with ' _disastrous mistakes_ '."

There's a moment of silence over the phone and Neil waits with baited breath for his father's reply. When Hannibal speaks next, however, most of the anger is gone from his voice, which Neil hadn't exactly expected and hadn't prepared himself for the way he'd prepared himself for the dark anger and fury. "You are risking your life doing this, Mischa," his _tėvas_ says quietly. "You're putting yourself directly in the crosshairs of the Moriyama, and through them what remains of the Wesninski crime syndicate. Do you truly hate me that much, that you'd put yourself in such mortal danger?"

Neil exhales, his shoulders slumping as the hot flush of anger mostly fades, leaving a deep-seated tiredness in its wake.

"I don't hate you," he says quietly, honestly. "I could never hate you. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to hurt you. I want you to know how it feels, to watch me do something so stupid and be so deathly afraid for me."

"Sometimes I think I raised you to be too much like me." Hannibal murmurs.

"You were the one who taught me about finding people's weak spots," Neil agrees. "And I know yours."

"What I feel for you, Mischa, is the very closest that I can feel to love," Hannibal says quietly.

"I know," he replies, just as quiet. "And I love you too."

"Then please," Hannibal urges, "Mischa, please, rethink this. Stay in America, if that's what you wish, but don't continue with this foolish course of action!"

"Now doesn't this sound familiar," Neil snorts, shaking his head. How many times had he begged Hannibal to stop with the games, to part ways with the FBI, to just fucking kill Miriam Lass already?

Too many times.

"Goodbye, _tėvas_ ," he says, his voice final. Then he hangs up before Hannibal can reply, turning off the phone before letting his head fall onto his hands. Winston whines, resting his furry chin on his knee and looking up at him with sad eyes. "No turning back now," Neil tells the mutt, reaching to scratch behind his ears.

All the cards are in place, the dominos are lined up, everything is ready and Neil has _no_ intention of backing out at this point, no intention of running; he's going to be a Fox.

That night, Neil- _Mischa_ dreams of the very first time Hannibal took him to Lithuania, to the old Lecter estate. It was just one of the various properties that had once belonged to the Lecters, before the Soviet Union had taken ownership of them, but it was Hannibal's favourite, the one he'd invested the most into restoring.

They hadn't gone alone; Hannibal's aunt, Lady Murusaki—or Murusaki- _baa-chan_ as she'd delightedly demanded _Mischa_ call her— had accompanied them, despite the fact she was in her early nineties, as had her "personal assistant" Chiyoh. Murusaki- _baa-chan_ had an ageless beauty and elegance to her that had taken Neil's breath away from the very first time he saw her to the last— it had been immediately clear to him where Hannibal had learned how to present himself to the world as wealthy, classy, unattainable, and gracious.

Chiyoh was younger then Murusaki- _baa-chan_ , and she lacked the elegance of her mistress, but she had an edge of steel to her— as far as _Mischa_ had figured, she was some sort of combination of servant, bodyguard and nurse to Murusaki- _baa-chan_ and he'd liked her too, even though she reminded him a bit of Lola; she could be _scary_ , but she was _protective_ -scary, not _mean-cruel_ -scary like how Lola had been. She'd helped him with his Japanese, so he could impress Murusaki- _baa-chan_ during the lessons the older woman had decided to give him, and told him stories about her life in Japan and France.

 _Mischa_ had enjoyed his time at the Lecter Estate; he'd especially enjoyed exploring the old manor, which was how he'd ended up face-to-face with the man in the cage, buried deep in the lower levels of the manor. Considering he was still used to people being tortured, murdered and dismembered in the basement of his home at that point he hadn't been at all surprised or alarmed, but he had been curious and, unlike his biological father, Hannibal encouraged that he asked questions, so he'd asked _why_ the man was in the basement.

That was when he first learned about his namesake; Mischa, Hannibal's little sister. He'd then learned that the man in the cage had been involved in the death of (namesake)Mischa— he hadn't been involved in the actual crime, he'd actually been involved in the investigation into the crime, but he'd neglected the 'unimportant' case of one dead little orphan, too focused on other, more 'important' investigations. For that, he would pay with his life.  

Neil didn't realise until later that the reason Hannibal had kept the man alive for so long, despite having given him a death sentence, was because his _tėvas_ was _afraid_ of the idea of his revenge being complete and what that would mean; in a twisted way, keeping the man alive was Hannibal's way of keeping (namesake)Mischa's memory alive.

Hannibal had ended up killing the man at the end of their holiday, slitting the _pig's_ throat so the four of them could watch him bleed out before them all— he hadn't needed the man to keep (namesake)Mischa's memory alive anymore, not when he had _Mischa_.

"Time for a new beginning," he'd murmured, after the pig's death throes had been complete, one of his hands resting steadily on _Mischa's_ head.

When Neil wakes up from the vivid dream, he can still feel the phantom touch of his _tėvas's_ hand on his head, a reassuring weight that had always comforted him as a child. His breathing is shaky for several minutes, even with Winston a reassuring presence at his side. When he doesn't feel like he's on the verge of tears any longer, he picks up the burner phone he uses to contact Will and, before he can think the better of it, types out: _CHIYOH, LECTER ESTATE, LITHUANIA_ , and hits the send button.

After Murusaki- _baa-chan_ 's death, Hannibal had employed Chiyoh to ensure the upkeep of the Lecter Estate, which they'd used as their holiday home, travelling to Lithuania at least once a year every year and staying there for two or three weeks.

He's not sure if Chiyoh will still be there, not now that it's publically known that Hannibal is a cannibalistic serial killer, but Chiyoh— she was a stray dog too, Murusaki- _baa-chan_ 's stray dog, and she has that same stray dog loyalty carved deep into her own bones.

If he was a betting man, Neil would bet on her still ensuring the upkeep of the Estate. Will, he thinks, would benefit from meeting Chiyoh, from hearing out her stories of the Lecter family and learning the truth about the first Mischa, because that's a secret that neither Neil nor Hannibal has ever shared with Will, but it's one he needs to know and Neil just can't bring himself to tell him. 

He checks the time on the phone— 3.37am— before he turns it off, not wanting to see any reply Will might send, and despite himself, he smiles slightly.

It's May 12th, the day he goes to Palmetto.

"Time for a new beginning." He murmurs.

 

**END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Neil(Mischa)'s recruitment to the Foxes.  
> As is evident for both the TV series and the books, there are already divergences from canon and there will continue to be so.  
> I hope you all enjoyed this!
> 
> ~Cheshire Carroll xo


	4. Sequel

_Part Three of the series posted!_

 

 

**WHEN THE FOX HEARS THE RABBIT SCREAM**

“ _When the fox hears the rabbit scream, he comes a-runnin', but not to help_ ”

The Butcher of Baltimore’s son was always terrified; Hannibal Lecter’s son is not. Both were, are and always will be survivors at their core, but there is a stark difference between them— Nathaniel Wesninski was the child of a murderer, but Mischa Lecter is a murderer. A new name doesn’t change that.

Or: a disempathetic sociopath is a type of sociopath able to feel an emotional connection to a restricted group of people, a group that may include friends, pets or family members, but regards people outside of the group as objects. Neil Josten joined the Foxes to get back at his father. Somehow, he ended up getting attached, and when the Moriyama Yakuza started making trouble, well, that’s just rude. The Lecters have one response to rudeness.

**Author's Note:**

> This part of the 'A More Refined Butcher' series will cover Neil's recruitment to the Foxes~  
> Enjoy!  
> xx


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